Wind of the winter night,
Under the starry skies
Somewhere my lady bright,
Slumbering lies.
Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,
Where the pale moonlight streams,
Softly she sleeps.
I do not know her face,
Pure as the lonely star
That in yon darkling space
Shineth afar;
Never with soft command
Touched I her willing hand,
Kissed I her lips.
I have not heard her voice,
I do not know her name;
Yet doth my heart rejoice,
Owning her claim;
Yet am I true to her;
All that is due to her
Sacred I keep.
Never a thought of me
Troubles her soft repose;
Courant of mine may be
Lily nor rose.
They may not bear to her
This heart’s fond prayer to her,
Yet—she is mine.
Wind of the winter night,
Over the fields of snow,
Over the hill so white,
Tenderly blow!
Somewhere red roses bloom;
Into her warm, hushed room,
Bear thou their breath.
Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,
Breathe thou no tender word;
Wind of the winter night,
Die thou unheard.
True love shall yet prevail,
Telling its own sweet tale:
Till then I wait.